


Platitudes

by Krystalicekitsu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all dreams are of sugar plum fairies. Some are of fairies with Semtex vests and waterboarding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Platitudes

**Author's Note:**

> For sherlockbbc_fic's kink meme. Panic attack prompt? Couldn't resist.

_John can see it all, can see the betrayed look in Sherlock's eyes, the way he shifts back slightly, his body language screaming 'no, no, enemy, betrayer', can feel his mouth, deadened and thick as he parrots back Moriarty's drivel just as surely as he can feel the weight of Semtex dragging him downwards._

 _Sherlock's mouth opens, words forming, but no words emerge. Instead it's the bright and harsh sounds of the war, gunfire over exploding artillery shells. To his right, the water of the pool turns blindingly black, slips over his vision, drips down the back of his head, curling around his ears, puddles beneath his nose. Behind him he can feel iced metal dig into the base of his skull, Moriarty's words hissed directly into his ear even as they echo through the wire, "21 dead, ambushed outside the base. One survivor on site, one confirmed POW-"_

 _And the image shifts, and suddenly John's tied to a rickety office chair, water slowly suffocating him through his own scarf, Sherlock screaming next to him, "No- John! John! Please, don't- John-"_

"John!"

John bolts upright, stumbles, dizzy, the world tilting and snapping in and out of focus harshly. His breathing's too fast, too shallow, and he can feel the hysteria creeping up the edges of his spine.

"John!"

His back slams against the wall, he moves away so fast, and the feeling of movement he'd gotten from inside the room stills so suddenly it's jarring.

He throws up.

Again and again, his insides clenching in excruciating agony, but he has no idea how to stop it and the frantic, run-away beating of his pulse just drives the nausea up further. Something touches his shoulder and he strikes out, conscious thought far enough gone that he only distantly registers the feeling of flesh under his hands and knuckles, the pained hiss.

The feeling is getting worse and the thoughts flashing through his mind-

 _don't have- where's my gun- need to get out- no, dear god, drowning-_

just drive his heart rate up even further until the black that had been pacing the edges of his vision tips the scales in battle and his vision goes completely, except for a small spot of colourless motion in his purview.

John's not sure how long it takes, but eventually the thoughts in his head fall dead and his pulse putters out into something more like it's usual rate. The constrictor wrapped around his chest eases off and he can breathe again and he's so relieved he spends several seconds taking deep, gasping breaths to such an extent his pulse climbs up a beat or two.

He finally comes back to himself curled up on the floor of his and Sherlock's room exhausted, clammy, slightly embarrassed, and with a thin film of shame covering every inch of his admittedly sore body.

"John?" The voice is low, unobtrusive and John wearily lifts his head to spot Sherlock perched on the bed, eyes dark and shadowed over his clasped hands. John manages a grunt that's more a toneless whine.

Sherlock's on him in seconds, wiping his face and hands with a soft cloth and cool water from a basin he hadn't registered. A few seconds after, he's rinsing his mouth with more cool water, being encouraged to swallow the third and all following mouthfuls from the glass rather than swish-and-spit into the basin. He does so gingerly, barely able to taste the small amount of lemon he knows Sherlock must have put in it when his stomach refuses to rebel a fifth time.

"Nightmare?" Sherlock doesn't need to ask, he never does. And yet he always _does_ , using pointless questions he already knows the answer to as a favor to John. To help ground his mind in the current.

John nods dutifully.

"The war?"

John hesitates a moment, using another sip of water to explain his delay before nodding slowly again.

"Moriarty."

Sherlock doesn't ask this time, lips going hard and firm, and John doesn't answer.

One thing John is pathetically, deliriously grateful for in all this is Sherlock doesn't offer up useless pitying platitudes, no 'it's alright' or 'it was just a dream'. Just practical help before he practically caries John to bed, mindful of the wounded thigh that's always tender after a nightmare like that.

Sherlock bundles him in bed, gets the large, handmade quilt from the trunk in the other room and spreads that over the bed as well, before snuggling down inside the cocoon. He wraps himself gently around John, one arm under his neck, the other hand placed low enough on his chest not to be uncomfortably close to his throat, yet high enough not to brush against his stomach. He strokes thumb and fingers over John's sternum for a few minutes, contemplatively quiet before he sighs and nuzzles the top of John's head.

"It's alright, John," and John doesn't have even a second to find bitter remorse at the useless platitude before Sherlock continues his oath, "We'll bring him down. Just wait and see."

John won't fall asleep again that night, couldn't had he wanted to, but if he had, he'd fall asleep with a deliriously happy grin.


End file.
